Forget Me Not
by Dali2theLlamasquared
Summary: Shawn has run away in the past. Another fight, and once again he's gone. Who knew he was coming back? Who knew he was in trouble? Shawn always runs, right? Besides, why would this time be any different? Previously posted on Psychfic.
1. Prologue

**Forget Me Not**

**Prologue  
**

A/N: For those of you who are avid readers of psycfic, this has already been posted on --I'm just re-posting here on to allow a wider audience access (and to shamelessly promote the wonders of ). Clearly I highly recommend going there. Since the entire story is complete, I'll just update every evening for those that are interested. Lots of love ~Ocean Born Mary

Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING....*sobs hysterically* I don't even own the ability to infringe on USA Network and the creators of Psych...

This last argument had most certainly taken the cake. Shawn could clearly remember the last time he had been this angry with his father, and it had involved a night in a cell over stolen keys and a girl. And it had later involved the very thing that Shawn was doing now—running away on a motorcycle that his father despised. For the past four hours the fake psychic had been driving non-stop, except for a quick gas run, taking whichever road that would get him away the fastest. For someone who was supposed to be psychic, Shawn had to admit that he should have seen this coming. The way his dad would show up to make sure he had back-up, and would call, in the middle of a case, and have him come over…the way he had tried to have the department psychologist intervene…but he never did realize, that deep down, his father was truly worried about his safety.

It had escalated this past afternoon, when his father got a call from the Chief, saying that he was being held hostage by the suspect, having gone in when no one believed his psychic throes. And Shawn had to admit that his dad was right…none of this would have happened if Shawn had a badge and a gun. Shawn would have been able to draw a gun, legally, in response. And in hindsight, it was really rather stupid of him to throw his phone out and pitch his wallet in the trash, taking only the wad of cash from under the sink…his dad meant well…usually.

Pulling over to the shoulder, Shawn took a deep breath and lifted off his helmet, scrubbing at his face. "Stupid," he muttered. That was what he was. He'd blown a fuse and run…something he'd promised himself he'd never do again. He couldn't run out on his dad. Not like his mom had run out on them…he didn't want to lose his dad too. No. He had to fix this. For once he'd admit that he was wrong, and apologize. Just this once. But there was no way in hell that he was building another dog house. Shoving his helmet on with a little more force than necessary, Shawn made an illegal u-turn and headed home.

Yet, characteristic of his life, another event occurred that Shawn should have seen coming. Just as he began contemplating whether or not buying his dad a new whisk on the way home would save his sorry hide, his gas meter dropped below empty and the bike's engine began sputtering ominously. Swearing under his breath, Shawn brought the bike to a puttering stop on the side of the road, jaw clenching as the first drop of rain made its unwelcome way down the back of his neck. He had no cell phone. It was pitch black outside. He was in the middle of nowhere…and of course, it had to start raining. Shoving his bike behind some bushes, and hoping he'd be able to get back to it eventually (maybe after some hard core pleading with his dad), Shawn grabbed his backpack and began meandering his way down the road, hopefully towards civilization and a pay phone…where he'd call collect.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…" Walking sucked. Within five minutes he was soaked. And miserable…and it really didn't help that the only thing he had to look forward to was another lecture from his father…and one from Gus…and then their combined "disappointed" faces…the thought was enough to nearly make him turn and walk in the opposite direction, maybe even head back to Mexico. Shawn was on his 66.67th bottle of beer, and was just about to take it down and pass it around when he saw his salvation…headlights.

"Hey, HEY!!!" Diving into the middle of the road, Shawn began jumping and waving his arms around like a maniac, calculating how fast he'd have to move if the car didn't slow down. Thankfully, the car slowed, and then pulled to the side of the road, and Shawn scrambled over, hoping this meant that his fortune was changing and soon he'd be on his way to Santa Barbara… "Dude, thanks so much for stopping, you have no idea how bad…hey…"

Shawn had seen a piece enough to recognize what it looked like, and had fired one enough to recognize the Glock even in the shadowy confines of the beat up red Chevy. Backing up slowly, and realizing there was really no where for him to either run or hide, he held his palms out in what he hoped was an appeasing manner. "I'll…just go…"

The door jerked open to reveal a goliath of a man, and Shawn couldn't help but vaguely wonder if he hadn't been an ogre in another life. In the dark, Shawn wasn't able to discern his features, but by the smell, he was certain the guy hadn't bathed in awhile. The headlights glittered off the gun, and caught gold capped teeth, from this angle the license plate number seared itself to his brain, as did the out-of-state plates, before he was distracted. "Put the bookbag down!"

"Okay, just take it easy…" As he eased the straps off his shoulders, Shawn realized that this was probably the reason that hitchhiking had been made illegal. No wonder his dad had been so adamant when he was a kid about this stuff. Shawn decided rather quickly that his dad had no reason to know that he was right, and that this little incident would be a well kept secret between him and the guy with the gun, more fondly known as Bigfoot.

"Against the car!"

Easing around the gun, he caught another whiff of the guy, and realized the sickly smell wasn't body odor, but crystal meth, reminding him of another situation that his dad was to never know about…at least that had happened in Mexico. Shawn put himself against the car, Cops style, and was starting to wish he'd tried to convince the Chief to let him get a license to carry concealed, when he felt the guy start patting him down. "Hey!"

"Where's your wallet?"

Okay, it had been a really, really bad decision on his part to throw away both cell phone and wallet.

"Umm…I kinda threw it away."

He could hear the contents of his backpack being dumped, and heard the whistle of appreciation when the wad of cash hit the ground.

"Look, you can have the money…"

He felt the sudden blow against his head, pain exploding behind his eyes, and started crumpling to the ground, hitting his head a second time off the corner of the driver's door, a door that Bigfoot had never closed. His vision began closing in on itself as his mind clouded, and as the pavement moved up to meet his face, Shawn vaguely hoped that his father never got wind of this incident, because he certainly wasn't going to live it down…

A/N: Reviews are appreciated--flames will be ridiculed and then used to heat my house (which is currently at a robust 58 Degrees--Farenheit, not Celcius).


	2. Betrayal of the Mind

**Forget Me Not**

**Chapter One: Betrayal of the Mind**

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

**Santa Barbara, 1986.**

"_I can't, Dad! I can't remember!" _

_The young kid in front of him was close to tears, and Henry hated to push him further, but knew that it had to be done, it was in his best interest. "Yes you can, kiddo. I know you can. Now close your eyes." _

_Shawn swallowed hard, wrenching his eyes shut. He lifted his fingers to his temples, wincing as they brushed against his head wound, and lightly touched the stitches. _

"_Good. Now, what were you doing?" _

"_I…I don't know."_

"_Think, Shawn. Where did you go yesterday after school?" _

"_Gus…Gus and I…we went to his house…because…because you had to work…and Mom…Mom said she had to go out…" _

"_Alright, then what happened?" _

"_We…we went outside, and we were playing…we were playing…"_

"_What were you playing, Shawn?" _

"_We were playing eye spy…"_

"_I'm sure that was a fair game," Henry muttered. "And then what?" _

"_I…I don't know, Dad…"_

"_C'mon, pal. Did you hear anything?" _

_Shawn's face wrinkled, in pain or concentration, Henry wasn't sure. He was just about to let the kid go when his face cleared, and a smirk of satisfaction played across the young boy's lips. "Music…there's music…the ice cream truck! The ice cream truck! But it wasn't the ice cream man! He tried to grab Gus, and I kicked him, and Gus got away, and he started screaming…he grabbed me, and I bit him…he threw me, and I hit my head off of…that big rock in Gus' neighbor's yard…" _

"_That's good, kid…"_

"_YAG8159."_

"_What?"_

"_That's the plate number…and the plate…it was from Washington." _

"_Good job, kid." Henry ruffled Shawn's hair as reached past him for the phone. "I'll get them to run the number down at the station."_

**Santa Barbara, Present Day**

Henry stared sullenly out the window, half-expecting to see a motorcycle pull up and his son to come pounding on the door, demanding some sort of help on his latest case. He knew that wasn't going to happen though—he'd probably blown it this time, he hadn't seen Shawn this angry since he was eighteen…and next thing he'd known, Shawn was gone. He'd high-tailed it on that death-trap vehicle of his, and that was the end of that. For a good while, they hadn't talked at all—and then, eventually, he started getting postcards, and then pictures of his son in awkward situations: hanging out of a dead creature's mouth, on top of a giant hot dog, and numerous photos of his hands and feet. He highly doubted he'd even be getting that now.

He'd had Gus stop over the apartment, and all the signs pointed to Shawn ditching. Gus had found his cell phone in the garbage dispenser, and his wallet, full of his i.d. and credit cards, in the trash can. The emergency cash stash was missing, ipod, laptop, and a couple of photos were gone. Shawn's leather jacket was missing, and the money to terminate his renter's contract was in an envelope on the counter. Gus had recognized that Shawn wasn't coming back anytime soon, they'd be lucky if he decided to come back at all if the argument was anything like Gus suspected it was. In the back of his mind, the young man hoped that his best friend hadn't ended up in handcuffs this time.

Henry had refused to divulge the reason behind the argument, hanging up on Gus, and calling back five minutes later, demanding to know if Shawn called, emailed, or attempted any sort of psychic contact…And when Karen called the retired police officer, asking where her consultant was, he told her he wasn't sure, but thought he'd gone to help his mother, and he didn't think that the kid would be back anytime soon, if ever. The last part he kept to himself, though. Henry really didn't want to think of the possibility of Shawn never coming back. He'd driven past the agency earlier, and saw Gus hanging a temporarily closed sign.

Sitting at home, staring at the pineapple that his son had dropped off earlier that week, Henry felt white-hot anger course through him, making his chest tight and his heart race. Though if he was angry with his son, or with himself…the pineapple flew against the wall. "Goddamnit, kid…come home…please, just come home."

The words echoed in the silent kitchen, leaving Henry with nothing more than a smashed pineapple, and an empty heart.

*~~*

There was a strange beeping sound. It was echoing around him…where was he? He was floating, he felt hazy…. The beeping was back. How much time had passed? It didn't matter, he was safe, and warm…so, so…oh, it hurt, it hurt, his head was going to explode…

"Lowered morphine…"

"…wake him up…"

"Missing persons…"

"…no reports…"

"Uhhhh…"

"Close the blinds."

It hurt, someone make it stop…the fuzzy warmth was leaving…something was pulling him, the pain was pulling him…this had to be what it felt like to have your brain splattered all over God's green earth, except in slow motion….His eyes blinked open, they were heavy, so heavy…

"Hello, there."

It sounded like someone was dying, someone should go and see to that person, and put them out of their misery, make them stop moaning…

"Cut back the IV drip, see if we can make him more coherent…"

It was him, he was making that noise…

His mind cleared in stages, the pain less encompassing, less debilitating, but still reminding himself of its presence with every beat of his heart. Finally, he was able to pry his eyes open, and recognized that he was looking at a white coated doctor, and a nurse. "Hey there," the doctor smiled gently. "We were hoping you'd wake up. Welcome to LA. I'm Doctor Sullivan. If you're wondering how you got here, you were air lifted in when you were found bleeding out on the side of the road. How do you feel?"

He attempted to clear his throat, wondered who had stuffed cotton balls down it, and then was offered a straw, and sucked down the liquid, increasing the pain in his head with each pull, but the water cleared his throat, and even though it didn't quench his thirst, the cotton balls started to dissolve. They moved the cup away before he'd had his fill, and his mouth attempted to follow it, letting loose a disgruntled whine when it was placed out of his reach.

"Easy, you've been out of it…almost four days now. So, how do you feel."

"Head…hurts…" he had a feeling his voice wasn't supposed to be that raspy.

"I would expect so. We're trying to cut back the morphine, so I don't think that'll be going away anytime soon."

The doctor gestured to the nurse, and he felt the bed being adjusted, the whine of the mechanical bed as it strained under his weight grated on his ears.

A penlight flashed in his eyes, causing him to wince. "How's your vision, double, blurry?" "Fine, as long as you don't do that again." He heard the nurse snort, and glanced over, eyes drawn immediately towards the friendship bracelet on her wrist, a mismatch of colors and uneven knots. "How old is your daughter?"

"She's seven…how'd you know?"

"The bracelet. Girl Scout's, right?"

"Yeah…" The nurse smiled, confusion playing across her features.

"Can you wiggle your fingers? Your toes?"

"Check, and check…don't ask me to shake my head, I have a feeling that'll just make me hurt worse…"

"Well, I can assure you I won't do that…now, we just need some information for your chart. Name, date of birth, that sort of stuff."

He froze, expression that of a deer caught in headlights. "Name?"

"Is something wrong?"

He tried to push his mind back, but it only resulted in stars exploding across the universe that was his head, quickly followed by a comforting endlessness that could only be a black hole.

The next time he woke up, the pain had abated some, but the doctor was still there. "We ran a couple of imaging tests while you were out of it. Appears that there is some swelling in your brain…which is probably what is causing your memory loss. Unfortunately, we've checked for missing persons, and there is no one that has reported someone of your description missing."

"So what do I do next, Doc?" He pulled himself up on his elbows, bringing himself to a sitting position, and fingering the stitches that graced his face.

"I talked to a neurologist, he looked at the images, and believes that you should heal fine…and is hopeful, that you may regain your memories."

"May?"

"Well, the biggest issue is we don't have anyone who knows you…patients with amnesia usually benefit from being in familiar surroundings. You're going to be released soon, and there isn't anywhere for you to go…" The doctor sighed. "My first suggestion would be to get a place to live, and a job. I'm prescribing therapy, hopefully that may help…"

"So, do I get a cool name, like, Dirty Dancer, Ruler of the World and all things Musical?" The doctor appeared un-amused. Maybe he just didn't appreciate Patrick Swayze…Why could he remember who Patrick Swayze was, and he didn't even know his own name…_I think I just got a lap dance from Patrick Swayze…_

He was pulled back to earth by what sounded like a broken muffler, only to realize the doctor was clearing his throat. "Are you even listening to me?"

He nodded, and then almost gave up hold on his internal organs as his head reminded him of its connection to his stomach. Swallowing past what must have been his liver, it felt too big to be anything smaller, he attempted to listen to the rambling doctor.

"For now, why don't you pick a simple name…something that seems familiar…and I'd say the same for the job." The doctor tossed a book into his lap. "Here's a book of names…I'll be back in about half-an-hour, and the nurse should be in with your lunch soon."

"Thanks, Doc. Maybe I'll pick out a cool new name for you too."

The doctor left the room, shaking his head ruefully. He flipped through the book, and flirted shamelessly with the nurse, ignoring the grey lump on his tray and skipping straight to the blue Jell-O.

Trying again to push his memory back, he nearly ended up vomiting up his Jell-O, and decided that attempting anything involving his head was probably a bad idea for the next few days. But he felt a vague sense of accomplishment. When the doctor came back, he knew what name he'd use.

*~~*

"Do you think we should file a missing person's report?"

"No, Gus. I think he needs to cool off, and you know it could take him years to do that. I'm sure he's off riding that death trap down to Mexico right now."

And Gus had to admit, that Henry Spencer was probably right. If Shawn needed him, he'd call. If not…well, sometimes, it was best to just leave well enough alone. As he made his way through the kitchen, the sweet smell of rotten fruit caught the Super Smeller's attention. Against the wall were the splattered remains of a pineapple, Henry apparently hadn't been able to scrape the entirety of it off the paint yet. Hoping that the crushed fruit wasn't some sort of foreshadowing about his best friend, Gus made his way to the car, marveling on how silent it was now that there wasn't someone next to him to change the radio station settings every forty-five seconds, and wondering why he missed it so much.

*~~*

"Hey, Doc!"

"How'd you know it was me, you didn't even look up."

"You are wearing soft-soled shoes, and you have the habit of tapping your wedding band of your clipboard and your clipboard off your thigh. Unlike the nurse, who is wearing rubber shoes, they squeak anytime she drags her toes, which is about every fourth step."

"I wonder where you learned to do that…"

"Wish I could tell, ya."

"So, any names seem familiar to you?"

"I keep thinking of some dog, and a kid in a well…"

"Lassie?"

"Yes….no…Lassi…Lassi…Yeah. I think that's my last name."

"And first name?"

"Henry. Henry Lassi."

"Well, Henry Lassi, it is nice to meet you. Do you have any idea what you are going to do when you grow up?"

Nodding vaguely and biting his lip, while congratulating himself when lunch didn't land all over the floor, he sighed. "This is going to sound really weird."

"What? Are you going to say you're a psychic or something?"

He snorted. "Yeah, that's real funny. A psychic. No…you see…I think…I think I was…a cop."


	3. Blue Jello Brain

Disclaimer: I own one can of crushed pineapple and one carton of orange-banana-pineapple juice. If that isn't enough to seduce Shawn Spencer than I don't know what is...

**Forget Me Not**

**Chapter Two: Blue Jello Brain  
**

Henry stared blankly at his morning paper, vainly looking for some sort of story about his psychic son. He'd become use to seeing it in the local newspaper, headlines about the psychic detective who had cracked this case or that, or who had been caught convening with a penny in a parking lot, trying to call up the spirit of President Lincoln. Human interest pieces that never made it further than the Santa Barbara Daily Times, but that always ended up in a shoebox under Henry's bed. Flipping the page, he startled at the rustle the paper made, the house seemed so much quieter now that there wasn't someone barging in unexpectedly at odd times. How often had he complained about the noise? About his things disappearing and reappearing later in strange places? And the presets on his radio in the truck changing at least once a week? When had he grown used to his son appearing, looking for help on a case? When had he come to enjoy his son's presence at the dinner table? When did he start relishing their arguments? And why did he only realize that he would miss him after he was gone?

Crossing the kitchen for the phone, he had half dialed the department's number, intent on filing a missing person's report, when he thought better of it and hung up the phone. Putting Shawn under as a missing person would just cause the kid to get even more upset, make him think that Henry didn't trust him to take care of himself at all—because that was what he had said, wasn't it? That Shawn needed a babysitter wherever he went, he couldn't be trusted to not get in trouble, just like the time he'd stolen gum out of the Easter basket when he was three…

Okay, so maybe this was his fault. He'd just gotten so worried about Shawn when he'd heard that he was being held at gunpoint…

Right, he'd overreacted a little bit. When Shawn finally resurfaced, he'd apologize…but that kid owed him at least three dog houses for scaring him like that and then running off…And maybe after they finished building them together, he'd get Shawn a little boy cat to go with them.

*~~*

Human beings weren't meant to subsist off of blue Jell-O for periods longer than a week. He'd decided that after the first week. But the pain medication that he was taking for his constant headache often tried to make him purge his gut. It appeared only a sacrifice of Jell-O would please his stomach and keep him from visiting the porcelain god. Thankfully, the second week, they had started weaning him off the medication, and though the pain hadn't abated completely, he could start eating more solid foods. If he ever was released from the hospital.

It appeared the staff had taken a liking to him, and were attempting to try to convince him to move in permanently. He thanked them kindly, and turned down the offer. They hadn't completely given up trying, but Doctor Sullivan had found a couple of suitable apartments, and the staff had taken a collection around the entire hospital, so he would have enough for down payment and the next couple of months rent. It was sweet of them, they'd even paid for most of his medical bills, and he'd decided to pay them back as soon as he possibly could.

There was a knock on the doorframe and the good doctor appeared. "Hey, Lass." That was the other thing he'd decided…Henry…it was familiar, but he just didn't feel right using it. As if for some reason that name should strike fear and terror into his heart, or at least an extreme feeling of guilt. Lassie, on the other hand, seemed to bring a grin to his face for no reason, and so he'd decided to go by Lass. "How's your head today?"

"Great, Doc."

"Good." Doctor Sullivan smiled, and scribbled on his chart. "Now, I'm going to give you a prescription of Vicodin. You aren't to take this every day, but as the swelling starts to go down, you're probably going to get migraines. Especially under stress, or, as your memory begins to return."

"Thanks," Lass smiled, "Does this mean I'm getting out?"

"Well, I know you want to leave, but why don't you get dressed, and then I have someone that wants to meet you."

"Yes!" He jumped from the bed, ignoring the fact that he was only dressed in a scanty hospital gown, and focusing on the fact that he was getting out of this bar-less prison.

"Calm down…and stop jumping, or I'll have them medicate you again!"

"Sorry." He couldn't keep that ridiculous grin off his face, and bounded over to grab the stack of clothes.

"We had them cleaned, but they're yours."

Lass froze, hand hovering over the green t-shirt and jeans. _Your one true love will be wearing sneakers and an Apple Jacks t-shirt._ Vaguely, he realized he was shaking…no trembling. Trembling like some stupid leaf in the wind, unable to keep itself from being blown away, but hanging on, desperately clinging, unwilling to go of that last thread…_Hair blonde…a smile…_

"Lass!" The hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, blowing the leaf off the branch as the wind took the last of his memory with it. "You okay?"

"I'm…I'm fine."

"Okay, then get dressed, I'll bring in your visitor in a couple of minutes." The doctor gave him one last squeeze on his shoulder and then turned, leaving him alone with the clothes and a half-eaten plate of blue Jell-O.

*~~*

"Mr. Guster?"

Picking up the smoothie from the counter, Gus turned to meet the blue gaze. "Detective." Lassiter and O'Hara were sitting at a small table that allowed them to have a view of the entire room. And Gus knew that they were sitting there because it was well known that this was the place that Shawn came to most often when looking for delicious flavor in the form of a pineapple smoothie.

"Come sit with us!"

"Sorry, Juliet. I have work to do, I really need to finish my run…" But the truth was, without Shawn here, he'd gotten his weekly run done in half the time, and now really had nothing to do.

"Just for a minute."

So Gus sat, wondering how Shawn could draw such three different personalities together, in a way that they would continue to socialize, even after he was gone. Lassiter looked tired, and Juliet just looked sad.

"I never thought I'd say this…" Gus looked up to meet the head detective's eyes, "…but I don't know what to do now that Spencer isn't rearranging my desk every two seconds or sneaking onto crime scenes. Have you heard from him? How's his mother?"

"His mother?"

"When we asked the chief she said Mr. Spencer said he'd gone to help his mother."

Gus looked at Juliet, confused for a second, and then shook his head. "No, that's just Spencer speak for they got in a fight again. Shawn ran off afterward, took his bike, and ditched his wallet and his phone. At least this time he had the foresight to terminate his rental agreement. Last time he did this, I thought his landlord was going to smite him with Zeus' lightning bolts."

"And he hasn't tried to call?" Lassiter sounded worried, but hid it by taking a large sip of his coffee, sloshing it over the rim and onto the table.

"It isn't that unusual. Once he went nearly a year without contact. Turns out he was teaching kids English in Thailand…"

"I can just imagine the words those kids learned…"

"I think their first accomplishment was the entirety of _Baby Got Back_."

Lassiter shook his head, bringing a hand up to his face and running it over his eyes. Juliet snorted, causing bubbles to form in her soda.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Gus said. "Henry won't let anyone file a missing person's report."

"Why not?" Juliet reached over and mopped up Lassiter's coffee with her napkin.

"Last time he did that, Shawn threatened to never come back."

*~~*

"Henry Lassie, I'd like you to meet my friend, Detective Hamilton."

"It's nice to meet you, Detective." The handshake was firm, but friendly, and the grey-haired detective's calm demeanor put him at ease, pushing the t-shirt incident from his thoughts.

"And you. I understand that you believe that you may have been an officer before the, well, accident."

"Yes, sir."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his doctor sidle from the room, leaving them alone. "We don't have any reports of missing officers…but the LAPD has agreed to evaluate you at the Police Academy. If you were an officer…"

His eye caught on the smudge of rust on the detective's shoe, traveling upward to the crinkled suit pants and rubber gloves that hung from his pocket. Taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his hands that bespoke of too much coffee, his mind seemed to suddenly make lightning fast connections, and before he knew it, Lass had opened his mouth. "Serial killer…that must be rough."

The officer stopped speaking. "How did you…there haven't been any reports released…"

"Blood on the shoe, means recent crime scene, as do the gloves. Disheveled clothes, you look tired, and wrung out. Too much coffee, and a long case involving a recent murder? Must be a serial killer."

Stunned silence filled the room, and Lass fidgeted nervously, wondering if he'd done something wrong, or perhaps said the wrong thing. Tinny voices filtered from the detective's pocket and he pulled out a miniature police scanner. "I've got to go…but I wanted to take you to the academy for testing…oh, hell, why don't you just come with me."

"Thank you, sir. I would be glad to go." As soon as the detective turned Lass jumped into the air in victory, doing a familiar little happy dance before taking down the hall after his future.

Fifteen minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of a country club that was surrounded by flashing lights and tape, shouts filtering across the ground as the owner argued over the fact that his clients were being detained because some stupid woman leaned on a railing and fell from the balcony. Detective Hamilton jumped out of his car, eating the ground in long strides, Lass doing a jump skip out of the car, nearly tripping over the lip, and then chasing after him. They ducked under the yellow tape, Lass mentally noted that it was upside down, and across the lawn.

"Officer Cullen!"

"Detective Hamilton, sir." The kid turned around quickly, and held out the clipboard to the detective, causing the irate man behind him, clearly the owner, to throw his hands up in frustration. No one noticed as Lass sidled over to the body, taking in the balcony and surrounding area quickly, before glancing at the owner, mind racing to put together quickly gathered clues.

"What do we have, officer?"

"Looks like an accident, sir. Woman leaned on the balcony railing, it snapped, and she fell."

"All right, I need you to do something for me officer, I need you to take Henry Lassie down to the Academy and have him take the paper test and a weapons test. I need the results immediately, and I need…"

"This was not an accident!"

Everyone froze. "Who the hell is this?!"

"Ahh," Lass smiled. "You must be the owner, Mr…"

"Jenkins."

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Your ex-wife did not accidently fall to her death."

"What…"

"You knew she was coming to see you today, didn't you Mr. Jenkins…don't deny it, both of you have tan lines where wedding bands should have been…"

"How could you get off…"

"I'm sure one of they many people who visit your club regularly could confirm it."

Jenkins shut up.

"What is he doing?" Officer Cullen whispered.

"Let's wait and see," answered Hamilton, intrigued.

"As I was saying, Mr. Jenkins, you knew your ex was coming, and I bet she wanted something from you. Whatever it was, you couldn't give it to her, and so, you had to get rid of her."

"This is all well and good…"

"Lassie, Henry Lassie."

"Right, but you have no way of…"

"The balcony railing had been sawed half-way through in two places, as you see, the railing pinned underneath the body is clean cut here and here, before it splinters off at the bottom."

Detective Hamilton stepped forward to examine it. "It is, Cullen, didn't you notice this?"

"Well…"

"I'll take that as a no. Go on, Lassie."

"Thank you. This was clearly done with a hand saw, as you can see by the uneven teeth marks. Apparently, Mr. Jenkins ex-wife didn't give him enough warning, because he was unable to change between the time he fixed the railing and her arrival, leaving the grease smudge on his white golf shirt, there."

Hamilton turned to scrutinize their newest suspect, hand already trailing down to his cuffs in a manner that seemed strangely familiar to Lass. Shaking off his déjà vu, Lass continued.

"But I don't believe that she leaned against the railing voluntarily. No. You fought…I'm sure some of those that have been detained can attest to raised voices. You waited until she was close to the railing, and then, you pushed her against it. The sawed through portion cracked under her weight, and she fell to her death, but not before she reached out, looking for a handhold, and pulled your handkerchief from your pocket, which is still clutched in her hand."

Mr. Jenkins had paled, his fingers running nervously through his comb over, and reaching to his pocket, looking for the missing handkerchief. Not finding it, he raised his eyes and glanced nervously at the officers that had begun closing in on him.

"What…what was I supposed to do?!" his voice came out high-pitched and breathy. "She was pregnant…she's was going to make me pay child support…"

"It is too bad, then, Mr. Jenkins," Hamilton toned, gesturing an officer forward, "that because of the death of the fetus you can be charged on two counts of murder in California. Read him his rights and book him."

Lass felt the pain suddenly spike in his head, but took a deep gulp of air, deciding that he would be getting that Vicodin prescription filled as soon as humanly possible. Especially since the pain was wrestling with his instinct to jump up and down insanely with victory.

Hamilton turned back to Cullen, lowering his voice. "On second thought, Cullen, forget the paper test, see how he handles a gun, and if it is even remotely anything like his performance now, I want a badge with his name on it by the end of the day. Got it?"

"Ye…Yes, sir."


End file.
